


Everything Sacred

by handwizard69



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Byrgenwerth bullshit, Gen, idk what that means, no fucking but a lot of trucking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26411038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwizard69/pseuds/handwizard69
Summary: The tale of Micolash and Laurence at Byrgenwerth, and the tomb of the Gods, from whence everything sacred in Yharnam came.
Relationships: Micolash & Laurence
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, Laurence is non binary in this because it’s my lore-and-narration-heavy interpretation of Laurence and Micolash and their weird rivalry at Byrgenwerth and I get to do what I like. No real fucking, but mentioning of it so it’s Mature. Originally I wrote this as some additional info for another piece I’m working on about Laurence’s descent into beasthood, but I really have no idea how I’d fit this in there since its skews more towards Micolash than Laurence. So it’s its own thing now. Also, no whining about how Laurence is canon he/him and that makes him a cis dude (I’m non binary and use he/him fwiw). I could’ve made Laurence be thomas the fucking tank engine in this if I felt like it. NO RULES JUST RIGHT!

1.

There could have been no person more Laurence’s opposite than Micolash. The young man, who was already not so young when Laurence appeared at Byrgenwerth, was possessed of almost every quality Laurence lacked, and in Laurence were all things Micolash strove towards, but by some fault of character, or form of birth, would never acquire.

Physically, he was almost repulsive: tall and gaunt, misshapen in form as much as he was in mannerism, and the bright blue eyes that on any other man may have been a blessing only fell flat in his visage, giving little more allure than a dying flame in a skull’s orbit. Laurence, however, was beautiful—a single smile from them flung hearts from their chests, capsized plans and attention-spans, weakened knees and, in more lonesome souls, made vows of undying love spring to their lips. Laurence’s hair hung like golden silk down over their shoulders, and their voice rang like crystal— clear and bright and with an edge of fragility that suggested a tender heart, easily breakable, lay within them. That they were here on a distinguished scholarship, reserved only for those whose entry exams had achieved perfect scores, created them almost a god among mortals. So bright, and so beautiful was Laurence, they were like the sun itself, dousing out all others. There was no need for anyone else. There could only be Laurence.

Before, there had only been Micolash. He had come from money, though this did not interest him much—not like the others at Byrgenwerth, bright as black pudding, whose places had been bought for them, their average exams hidden in the provost’s well-greased palm. These students would, in time, graduate into obscurity, unretained by the institution, or else take distinguished and extended sabbaticals from which they would never return. Byrgenwerth would remain a pin in their past, a mystic, rather obscure thing whose only use would be to be called upon to breathe life into dull or otherwise dying conversations. Their sons, daughters, children, could one day matriculate with ease, if they so desired, but it would mean as little to them as it had the generation before them.

For Micolash, however, Byrgenwerth was everything. It would be everything for the rest of his life, or so he thought and so they all thought. Philosophy, the arcane, the abstracted and intimate swirlings of realms and worlds and possibilities that lurked only in the conscious of the cosmos were his definitive passions, though he excelled in everything, as deft in foreign tongues as he was cutting a biological specimen. It was only that some of these things were beneath him—were too practical, too straight-forward, too easy to retain his attention—and so he underperformed in these subjects, almost with a cruelty, so little did he value the mundane. These neglects of disinterest were almost social blunders—pock marks upon the face, a disregard for the institution and its embrace of well-rounded learning. Yet his passions overrode these slights in the eyes of most, and pitched him into research beyond his levels, beyond, even, the ken of some of his professors. His papers had little use outside of Byrgenwerth, but within those walls they proved that if there was any true brilliance, any genius in Byrgenwerth, it resided within Micolash.

Just how aware he was of the cruelty of the world was not known. Laurence was half as bright, but beautiful, and gifted with a social grace that slotted them into any company with ease. Their talents were for the mundane things, as Micolash thought them—chemistry, biology, medicine. Straightforward, plodding and predictable things, whose only demands were to slice into a vein, to listen to a heart beat, to calculate the blood content within a man to see just how many seconds his heart would still beat once his head had been cut off. That Laurence excelled in these things meant only that they ought to have been a doctor, and little else beyond that. In the abstract, Laurence’s mind blundered and found walls as though it were some kind of hedge maze, when really, the path was as clear-cut as a bowling green. At least to Micolash.

It would have been perhaps more dignified to have come to the conclusion that their entrance exams had been cheated upon after hearing such things about Laurence. But it was the moment Micolash had seen them that he had decided it—Laurence simply did not belong. Not here, not with someone like him. That they came from nowhere and nothing—they had been a book binder’s assistant, of all things—bolstered this belief in Micolash. But their scores somehow had been perfect, and they were here on Byrgenwerth’s coin. On Micolash’s coin, even. And they were half as bright, and yet within the space of only two or three months, they had eclipsed Micolash in the eyes of the provost, of the masters, and of the professors.

There was no way to prove Micolash’s suspicions, and no way to remove the thorn of it from his side. It burrowed and festered, deeper and with an increasing inflaming, irritated by the smallest things. One of the greatest and most inexcusable slights Laurence made towards Micolash was advancing enough in chemistry to take the same level of lectures with him, despite Micolash’s years of seniority. And they were friendly with him, sometimes sitting near and offering a spare sheet of paper when they witnessed Micolash’s notes getting cramped, or nodding a quiet hello when they slipped in late, the professor already preparing the group for its theater that day. And Micolash was forced to not only hear the answers they gave with such clear confidence and ease, but had to witness them correcting the professor at times—and being right. These corrections never proved a blunder, and unlike Micolash’s own similar ventures, as they were not entirely uncommon in lecture theaters on other subjects, it was met with what Micolash could only identify as pleasure. Pleasure! Pleasure to be corrected by one’s own student! But of course, that was somehow wrong to say. It was not just a student. It was Laurence.

It was in Micolash’s final year, and Laurence’s second, that he finally saw the other side of Laurence. Though, to be entirely honest, it was not seen quite literally at all; it was only heard. Outside one of the professor’s offices late at night, returning from the library after another long evening at his carrel had turned into night, Micolash spied a single door ajar, and from it heard the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking.

Micolash halted, drawn to stop his own footsteps to better hear in silence; perhaps unmistakable had, in fact, been mistaken.

But one moan followed another, and when one of them exhaled and let out a keening— _yes, yes, just like that_ —there was no mistaking what it was. Or who it was.

It was Laurence.

The door was very nearly shut, impossible to see into, but he knew whose office it was, and conjured the scene as clearly as if it were playing out before him. Laurence, half disrobed, bent over the desk, their golden hair brushed away to expose the long line of their neck to be kissed by the professor of the arcane as he rutted into them from behind like an old goat. Surely, Micolash thought, it could not have been a pleasant experience, but each second of Laurence’s performance remained convincing of pleasure to the very end.

Micolash grinned. He had been right. All along, he had been right about Laurence.

He noted it in his schedule book that night. This was the first time by Micolash’s ken; there would be others. He did not think of—or did not confront—the ease with which he had conjured up the scene in his mind. Did not examine the desire for Laurence to be the one being fucked, for their hair to be pushed back behind their shoulder, exposing the neck and throat, their shirt half-unbuttoned and pulled off one shoulder, exposing pale skin to warm candlelight. Of course such images existed within Micolash’s mind. It was Laurence.

♦

Micolash watched over the years as Laurence rose, steadily, in their stations at Byrgenwerth. Graduating early, and retained by the institution for research and instruction as was Micolash, Laurence made professor easily in two years teaching biological courses. He noted with great interest the shift of interaction between Laurence and those above him. It was not always the same, the telling signs of someone under Laurence’s spell, but there always came a glance, a look that came when no one thought they were looking, that told Micolash all he needed to know. He told himself he did not think about it—but he did. In the deep recesses of him, which were more emotional and untethered than he ever gave admittance to, even to himself, he wondered, his mind snagging over it in unexpected moments like a hangnail. Did Laurence truly see something in the partners they picked, or were they simply the necessary input needed for the calculation of Laurence’s own success? Micolash had had, in his time at Byrgenwerth, two partners, and he had thought them both to be rather emotionless affairs, though this was not true. There had been a great wealth of feeling, but it had been buried and ignored to better facilitate his extrication once the desire for greater intimacy appeared. Yes, there had been great emotion and there was still a great wealth of emotion—and it was seeing Laurence, picking partners for their own means, that stirred the muddy pool of it within him.

Laurence, naturally, made Master before Micolash. And for all of Laurence’s calculating, had it not been for Micolash’s own hand, it would have never happened at all.

♦


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the empty halls of Byrgenwerth, Micolash uncovers more secrets about Laurence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that summary sucked, but the most important note about this chapter (which is maybe easy to miss) is that we're going back in time a few years. the last chapter ended with micolash and laurence both already having graduated; this chapter is right after micolash graduated (as it states). laurence is still an undergrad.
> 
> some of this chapter i really blazed thru. maybe would've been nicer to linger, but also like, fucking get on with the story dude you know

2.

In the cold winter following his graduation from Byrgenwerth, Micolash fell ill. Due to the condition of his lungs, it was necessary that he not take the winter holiday away from Byrgenwerth, but instead stay settled in his room, boarded up with and looked after by the institution’s skeletal staff, whose main winter concerns usually revolved around little more than making sure the pipes did not freeze. He held little fear—or even worry—for the illness that rattled in his lungs; he had been an ill child, quarantined and confined to dimly lit nurseries, to lonesome window-seats, to forgotten books. If the sun shone upon him it was ever through window-panes, and had he any peculiar longing for nature, it would end with a visit to the hot-house, where there grew exotic flowers and dwarfed trees, sheltered from the outside world by frosted glass.

It was perhaps then that his genesis as a scholar truly began, unable as he was to venture forth into the world, or even to play as other children did. His entire world was inside, a wholly internal thing that demanded a great depth of thought and imagination just to survive the loneliness and the days that passed unremarkable and indistinguishable from the previous.

His illness that winter, then, was no stranger, and his confinement only an un-daunting challenge of isolation, boredom, and thin broths.

At least, it should have been. Laurence stood at Master Willem’s side when he bid the ailing man a farewell, and when Master Willem left, Laurence did not. Micolash watched them exchange a few low words with their Provost,Willem nodding and smiling as he took them in.

When Willem was gone, Laurence turned to Micolash lying in his room and eyed him distantly.

“How are you feeling?” they asked, though they were not interested in this.

“It’s just a cough,”

“Very well.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’ll have them send extra coke1 to your room,” Laurence said. “if you need anything—”

“I’ll ring into the kitchen,” Micolash said.

They watched each other: Laurence, still in their long scholarly robes, and Micolash, lying beneath dark woolen blankets like a corpse in the earth.

“Master Willem wanted me to look after you,” Laurence said, their eyes narrowing. “He doesn't want to lose you.”

And with that, they turned out of the doorway and shut the door behind them.

Micolash saw neither hide nor hair of Laurence as the days went by. Countless times through the day Micolash heard distant footsteps covering the empty floors, but never did they halt outside of his door to be followed by a gentle knocking. Laurence never came to check on Micolash, despite their promise to Master Willem and all their pretenses to medicine. Micolash could have died the day after the schools’ closure, and Laurence would not have known. Micolash would have rotted in his own bed, discovered only by the poor maid who came in to change the sheets at the week’s end, and Laurence would not have blinked an eye.

He could not have said, however, what would have annoyed him more—this marked avoidance, or anything approaching doting care from the quasi-doctor. He could only imagine the badgering of repeated check ups, two fingers pressed to the wrist’s pulse, a hand upon the forehead, followed by offers of companionship and comfort— _reading_ to him at night, perhaps, as he was kept up by his cough, ragged and raw and unable to sleep. The thought of it, Micolash told himself, was repulsive. It was better this way. And besides, he was not afraid of dying. Not at least of a cough, no matter how deep it crackled in his lungs. He had been nearly dead a hundred times before, had he not? And he had survived it all, giving him claim to incredible fortitude, or else incredible luck. So he was not afraid. There was the pull for the bell, near his bed side. Wherever Laurence was—whatever they were doing here, it did not matter. Micolash was not alone. He took in shaking, rattled breaths in the depth of night and told himself he was not afraid to die.

♦

On the fifth day, Micolash began to hear things. They came from rather far-off, appearing to be somewhere behind him in bed at night, echoing out from somewhere deeper in the wing. When they were loud enough to settle into a recognizable pattern, it became the sound of voices speaking somewhat hushed and—if Micolash would permit himself to describe it in such a way—conspiratorially.

Though he strove for a neutrality of judgement in regards to his own thoughts, it was an unwelcome occurrence. He considered himself a sane man, saner than most, and in regards to his illness, his fever was mild, if present at all. He was on the mend, was he not? He could walk about easier each day, without losing much breach, and could sleep rather soundly for hours at night without being awoken by a cough. Yet he was beginning to hear things, health and sanity intact as they were.

It was only when, in the middle of the night, he shuffled out of bed and into the hallway towards the washroom that he realised his blunder. Down the hall stood open doors, lit from inside, and between them darted young men and women in varying assemblages of plainclothes. One carried a large rolled up tarp. The other, what seemed to be a supply of oil. Some of them wore strapped down leathers, crossed with empty ammunition belts. And one of them, of course, was Laurence.

Micolash scurried to the washroom and, once inside, began to laugh. It was either pleasure or relief—he was not mad, nor was he feverish to the point of hallucination. It was just Laurence, again, caught in a lie.

♦

The group of scholars—for Micolash recognized a handful of them, and they were unquestionably of Byrgenwerth’s ilk—made their way out of Byrgenwerth through the opposite side of the wing to Micolash's room, making it necessary for him to follow their progress by glancing through the windows of rooms boarded up for the season. Their lanterns bobbed in the darkness, the waxing moon hanging softly above, until they disappeared into the woods.

Micolash went directly to Laurence’s room and found it, infuriatingly, empty. Well—that was not entirely true: there were stacks of books and papers piled neatly upon the desk, shoes kept polished and in good repair at the foot of the bed, and their clothes were folded pleasantly in the trunk nestled at the bottom of the wardrobe, beneath their hanging uniforms. Dissatisfied that it would be so empty, Micolash got on his knees and began to rifle through the contents of Laurence’s trunk. Shirts, trousers, underclothes, a spare comb, a ratty book, a few odd toiletries.

Nothing.

In their desk were most disappointments: folios of notes, diagrams and charts, all mundane; thin volumes of supplementary material for past courses; drafts of past papers. Some of these Micolash stopped to read momentarily, caught by rare opportunity to glance into Laurence’s mind, to see their notes to themselves, their scrawled revisions of their own work in their long, looping handwriting. Something about it excited him, as though he was on the precipice of a secret, of some absolute truth about Laurence. But the glimpse proved superficial and sputtered out before burning to any adequate illumination.

In the drawers were no false bottoms, nor were there any false backs. Micolash found nothing of interest at all in the room until his eyes crossed over the small waste bin in its corner. He leaned forward and pulled something out: a long strip of rough, brown paper, with an economical thinness. It was instantly familiar to him as the paper that came wound around empty glass vials in a poor attempt to cushion them whilst in storage. Micolash removed a handful of these before finding beneath them a small square of gauze with a blot of red dried in its centre.

Micolash darted to the desk and removed a folio, licking his fingers and flipping through the papers within until he caught sight of the title he was looking for:

 _An Examination o_ _f_ _the Decelerating Qualities of Thickened Blood_

It was not the most obscure of texts, though certainly not one usually in the hands of undergraduates such as Laurence, no matter their scholarly focus. Micolash skimmed through it, amazed that he had overlooked it before, amazed that Laurence had let themselves be caught so easily. As he turned through the text, Micolash found it addled with underlined, circled and starred phrases, each more incriminating than the last. They finally culminated in the blank space at the paper’s end as a simple few lines in Laurence’s own hand: instructions for the hyper-coagulation of human blood.

Laurence had been making sedatives.

Micolash let it settle in his mind. Sedatives were an old product of Byrgenwerth, and a highly controlled one at that. While useful for steadying an unsettled mind, too much delivered staggering soporific effects which, if not closely watched, could deliver a patient into a quiet and early grave with unsettling ease. It was not a substance widely distributed, and not one to be freely requested. The small stock at Byrgenwerth, as Micolash understood it, had been retained from the institution’s years of research in the old labyrinths, where it proved a necessary evil. The program had been disbanded sometime shortly after Micolash’s arrival to Byrgenwerth due to the death of some of its participants. And the labyrinth, which had given up little in the pursuit of knowledge, had been declared out of bounds for Byrgenwerth and all its scholars. It seemed only madness and death lay therein.

And yet Laurence was preparing to enter them. Likely already had—likely was there, now, with a group of charmed Byrgenwerth scholars under the cover of night, their movements shielded from all suspicion by the institute’s vacancy over the winter holiday. That Micolash was there waiting out his illness surely was an unforeseen snag in Laurence’s plans, and Micolash, gently replacing Laurence’s folios in their desk, smiled to himself, eager to make the snag of his presence turn into a barricade.

♦

1Coke is a high-carbon fuel which burns cleaner than wood, charcoal, etc. I’m placing these Byrgenwerth years in a vague early/mid Victorian era, though time is weird in Yharnam and who knows how much it really syncs up to our own history, especially when it comes to innovation. I don’t think coke was used in domestic fireplaces, but it was used in stoves commonly around the turn of the century (1900); this could suggest that the rooms of professors, like Micolash, may have had small stoves (or braziers) that could double as personal cooking surfaces. A fireplace is more aesthetic or romantic, but Byrgenwerth as a place of higher learning and innovation likely had moved on to a more efficient fuel. I could be wrong about some of this, but if I am, well, this is Yharnam so who cares. Yharnam's not even real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i have no idea how long this is going to be. but we are going to be finding some old blood, and then maybe... it will go all the up to the founding of the healing church? who knows. i'm just writing shit.

**Author's Note:**

> hello thank u for reading! feel free to comment and tell me what u think micolash's papers at byrgenwerth are all about. i'd love to hear that shit.
> 
> chapter two should be up soon, maybe.


End file.
